The Proposal
by mermaidsahoy
Summary: Follows the general storyline of the movie The Proposal, with some changes of course: Sansa is an aspiring assistant at a publishing company, and Sandor is her boss from hell...who is about to be deported.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So…this has been an idea that I've been messing around with for a while. I really love the movie The Proposal, and I was thinking how it would be funny if the story was matched up with GoT and SanSan. As I couldn't see Sansa as being a bitchy boss that everyone hates and Sandor being a likeable assistant, I switched the roles: Sansa is the assistant, the Starks live in Alaska, and Sandor is the boss from hell, who is about to be deported. The general storyline will be followed along with many quotes from the movie, but I have tweaked it for the obvious reasons of fitting in the characters and reversed roles.

I hope you like it!

Chapter 1

Sansa wasn't sure how it was possible that she slept through her alarm. It was something that she had never done before, something that she trained herself not to do. But for whatever reason, this morning she rolled over, squinted at the sunlight creeping through the blinds, and blearily glanced at her clock. Her alarm had gone off thirty minutes ago.

With a jolt of fright, she catapulted from the bed, almost tripping and falling on her face as the sheets tangled around her ankles, and stumbled to the closet. "Crap!" she cried, digging through her outfits. "Crap, crap!" Hurriedly, she pulled on a silky white blouse and a high-waist black skirt. In the bathroom she brushed her teeth and applied just enough makeup to cover the dark circles under her eyes and bring attention to her long thick lashes. Her wavy hair was a mess, but there was nothing to do but comb it quickly. If she had time, she could finish getting ready at her desk. If _he_ managed to be late as well. Which _he_ probably wouldn't be.

Grabbing a trusty pair of heels, she ran to the kitchen and popped half a bagel in the toaster, checking her watch and groaning at the time. "Ugh!" Not bothering to apply jelly or cream cheese to the bagel, she placed it between her teeth, picked up her purse from the kitchen table, and rushed out the door. She was already running late, and she still had to run to Starbucks.

Cursing the heavy morning traffic of New York City, Sansa chose to run rather than hail a cab to the coffee shop, which was luckily positioned halfway between her apartment and work. There was a large line, as expected, but one of the baristas, a rather attractive young man, waved her over and handed her two steaming cups of coffee. "The usual?" he asked, taking the exact amount of cash from Sansa's hands and ignoring the looks of hate they were receiving from the other customers. "Yes, thank you so, so much! I'm running behind this morning," Sansa explained as she carefully balanced the coffee in a to-go holder. "You're welcome!" the barista called back as she flew back through the door and out onto the crowded sidewalk.

It was a miracle she made it to work without getting run over. Sansa almost wept with relief when she saw the tall tower of _Baratheon Book Publishing, Inc_., looming before her, the gold letters gleaming. She followed some business men through the spinning doors and maneuvered to the elevators, choosing one that would take her up the back way, flashed a thankful smile at a man who kept one of the doors open for her, and pressed the button for floor 10.

The doors opened, and she walked into the busy area filled with cubicles and other employees, using the last minutes of freedom to converse and laugh with each other over the dividers. Momentarily feeling triumphant, Sansa found her way to her desk, set the coffee down, and booted up the computer, her blue eyes scanning the hallways. It was five minutes until 8 o'clock.

Her email popped open, and a little notification appeared from Jenny, the front desk girl in the lobby. "He's here." Sansa quickly forwarded the email to every other employee on the floor. At the other end of the room, where the main elevators were, she could see through a thick shield of glass that one of them opened, and a tall, heavily muscled, suit-clad man walked out. She quickly typed out another email: "The Devil has emerged from hell." And she was lucky enough to be his assistant.

Instantly, the happy-go-lucky atmosphere of the office floor turned on its head, and every employee instantly rushed to their desks or to other occupations assigned to them. The air emptied of idle chit-chat and instead filled with the sounds of copying machines and fingers clicking busily on keyboards. Sansa sunk behind her divider, watching the boss blaze his trail through the office; anyone in his path had to either move over or be trampled. As soon as his foreboding figure disappeared inside his office, Sansa sprang up, grabbed one of the coffee cups and her notebook, along with a stack of papers, and headed for his office as well, only to be slammed into by Jessica, who was carrying a pile of folders. The folders went everywhere, and so did the coffee…all over Sansa's blouse.

"Oh no! Sansa, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you!" Sansa gaped at her ruined front, her mind already racing with excuses to give her boss. No, he would not tolerate a messy appearance… "It's fine, Jessica, but quick, give me your blouse!" "What?" the other woman gave her an uncomprehending look. "Just do it!"

Two minutes later, Sansa was wearing Jessica's blouse, which thankfully fit and was rather cute, and carrying her own cup of coffee into the office marked "Sandor Clegane: Executive Editor in Chief". Taking a deep breath, she approached the large, simple oak desk, behind which sat her boss, looking every bit as intimidating as he had every day for the past three years, bent over a manuscript. "Good Morning, sir," she greeted, placing his coffee on the desk along with the papers. "Sansa," he rasped shortly, barely giving her a glance. "What's today's schedule?" _Right to the point, as always,_ Sansa thought. She flipped her notebook open. "You have a meeting with Richard Perkins at 9," she read, clicking her ball-point pen. "A meeting with Stanford at 10, and another meeting with the board at 2." She placed her pen to the paper, ready to take notes.

Mr. Clegane tapped a few fingers on his desk methodically, thinking. He would be handsome if he didn't have permanent glare and expression of indifference on his face, like everyone and everything annoyed him. Dark hair that was parted over to one side, stormy grey eyes, a strong jaw complimented by a short beard that was borderline scruff. The scars that covered the right side of his face weren't so bad, thanks to skin grafts, but they were enough to add to his fierceness. Plus, his size and dark demeanor were enough to frighten anyone. His personality wasn't a redeeming factor, as well. As far as Sansa was concerned, her boss had the personality of a stump.

"Sounds good," he grunted, and Sansa made check marks next to the scheduled items. "Oh, and when Trant comes in, remind me to fire him." Sansa had been scribbling down his order but she paused. "You're firing our editor? Why?" she asked in surprise. Mr. Clegane arched a dark eyebrow at her question. "Yes, I am. He has failed consistently in the last few months to finish the work and close the deals he is assigned to. And he's always late. And I really despise his taste in ties. Does that answer your questions, Miss Stark?" Sansa swallowed. He only called her "Miss Stark" when he was in a more sarcastic mood than usual. Hoping to avoid spurring him into irritation, she simply nodded. "I will make a note of that, sir." "Good. You're dismissed for now," he said with a brief wave of his hand and reached for his coffee, settling back in the leather chair.

Sansa turned to leave when he spoke again. "Who is Michael, and why does he want me to call him?" She whipped her head around, puzzled, and saw him gazing at the coffee cup. On the side, written in black marker, was a name and phone number. Mr. Clegane shot her an inquisitive look. "Oh...um…" She sighed. "Well, that was originally my cup."

"And I'm drink your coffee why?" he questioned. "Because…yours spilled."

He nodded slowly, then brought the cup to his lips to take a sip. "So…you drink unsweetened cinnamon light soy lattes?" He enjoyed this, Sansa knew. He enjoyed making people feel uncomfortable. "I do. It's like Christmas in a cup," she replied, hoping the answer was neutral enough to dismiss the subject. "Is that a coincidence?" her boss continued.

"Incredibly, it is. I mean, I wouldn't possibly drink the same coffee that you do in case yours ever spilled," Sansa responded, becoming more and more nervous by the second, "that would be pathetic." Mr. Clegane's grey eyes looked her up and down for a moment, then nodded his head in dismissal. Sansa fled from the office, flopping back into her chair at her desk with a sigh. The phone rang, so she tossed down her notebook and answered it. "Good morning, Mr. Clegane's office."

Another, normal, frantic day had begun…or Sansa thought.

A/N: The chapters will get longer, I'm just testing the waters.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: First of all, I just want to say thank you to all of the enthusiastic responses for this story. You guys are great!

I like the idea of Sandor being in charge of things, and I feel like he would just be an absolute butthole to everyone, simply because he enjoys making people mad. If he seems OOC though let me know.

Obviously, some characters' names and situations will change to better fit this story and so it will not run exactly like the movie.

* * *

The morning crept by without much incident. Mr. Clegane went to his meetings, and Sansa answered phone calls, emails, and sorted through manuscripts for him to go over later, along with other monotonous tasks like picking up his dry-cleaning.

Right after Mr. Clegane returned from his 10 o'clock and was talking on the phone with Frank Bass, an author they had been trying to get an interview from for months, Sansa's mother called her desk phone. Sansa had told her family to do that so she could pretend she was working and not get in trouble for being on her cell phone. "Hey Mom…" Sansa glanced at her boss's door. "I'm sorry, I can't come home this weekend…I know, I know. Tell Gammie I'm sorry... What do you want me to tell you? He's making me work the weekend." Mr. Clegane had decided that this coming weekend was a perfect time to clean out all the filing cabinets, and the day before he told Sansa that her assistance was required. When she opened her mouth to explain that she had had plans to go home, he shot her a look and she immediately shut her trap.

"I'm sure Dad is pissed…" Mr. Clegane suddenly exited his office and walked towards her. "But we take all our submissions very seriously and we'll get back to you as soon as we can," Sansa spoke quickly, changing the subject, and hung up the phone just as her boss reached her desk.

"That your family?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. Sansa sighed. He could sniff out a liar a country away. It was the one thing he had standards on: no lying, just the harsh truth and straight facts. And he was superb at delivering both of those things with ferocious bluntness. "Yes," she answered.

"Did they tell you to quit?" Mr. Clegane continued, resting his elbow on the top of her cubicle. "Every single day," was her reply. His eyebrow arched and he studied her for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching. Some voices across the room caught his attention before he could say more.

"Ah, Trant is here. Come on, Sansa." Sansa stood and followed obediently, taking her notebook. Mr. Clegane, for whatever unearthly reason, liked her to be there when he fired people. Maybe as a reminder, a threat, of what he could do to her should she fail her duties. They marched down the hall and into the editor's office, where Meryn was just hanging up the phone. "Sandor," he greeted with poorly hidden distaste. Sansa stood near the back of the room, unwilling to call attention to herself. She watched as her boss's eyes darkened with an evil glint.

"Trant," he said, placing his hands in his pockets as if they were about to have a casual conversation. Through the doorway, Sansa could see some of the other employees poking their heads from behind their cubicles, looking rather like prairie dogs. They were just as eager for a show as Mr. Clegane was to deliver it.

"What can I do for you?" Meryn asked, visibly uncomfortable as he loosened his tie. "Well," Mr. Clegane began, giving the room a once-over. "You can do a lot, actually, but I think packing up your things in some boxes would be a good place to start." Sansa held her breath. Meryn blinked in confusion. "What?"

"I'm firing you," Mr. Clegane replied. "I asked you multiple times to get Frank on Oprah and you didn't do it." Meryn scoffed at that. "It's impossible. Frank hasn't given an interview in twenty years."

"That's interesting, because I just got off the phone with him, and he's in," Sandor replied, causing Meryn's mouth press into a thin line. "I'll give you two months to find another job and clean out your office to make it presentable for a future occupant." Meryn gaped at him like a goldfish, his face turning red and his fists clenching. Mr. Clegane continued gazing about the room and his eyes settled on the large bookcase behind Sansa. "I like this bookcase. Sansa," he said, and she snapped to attention, pen and paper at the ready. "Have this delivered to my office once Meryn is out." "Yes, sir," she replied softly, jotting it down.

"You can't fire me," Meryn sputtered angrily. "I just did," Mr. Clegane said, his mouth curling into a predatory smirk that Sansa hoped he would never unleash on her. "Bye." He headed out the door and Sansa followed, eager to get away from the tension that was building in that office.

"What's he doing?" her boss asked. She glanced behind them at Trant. "He's pacing…he's got crazy eyes."

They were halfway down the hall when Trant burst from his office, steaming. "Clegane!" he yelled. They turned around, and Sansa noticed her boss did not seem surprised by the outburst. "I know why you fired me!" Meryn seethed. "You feel threatened by me! You fire anyone you feel threatened by! You fired me because you're a stuck-up asshole! And you know what? I pity you! Because when you're on your deathbed, you won't have anything or anyone." He punctuated his words with jabbing a finger towards Mr. Clegane. The entire office fell silent.

Mr. Clegane observed the furious man in front of him coolly. "Listen carefully, Trant. I did not fire you because I feel threatened. I fired you because you are lazy, entitled, incompetent, and you spend more time cheating on your wife than you do in your office. And if you say another word I will have you thrown out on your ass. Okay?" Trant answered with an obscene gesture. Sansa gripped the notebook tightly.

"Do that again and you're out of here with an armed escort. Sansa here will film it on her little camera phone and put it on that Internet site." He turned to her. "What's it called?" "YouTube," Sansa answered quickly. "Exactly. Is that what you want, Trant?"

Meryn was fuming, but he reluctantly shook his head no. "Didn't think so. I have work to do." He smirked, and Trant slunk back into his office, muttering under his breath. It was then Mr. Clegane seemed to notice their audience. "Get back to work!" he snapped, and the employees scurried to their duties.

* * *

All in all, it had been a pretty accomplished day so far. The meetings went well, and he had got to fire Trant, which was an event he had been looking forward to for months. The man annoyed him to no end, and Sandor watched with twisted satisfaction as the man moved his things out of his office. The company would certainly do better without him, Sandor was sure.

Starting on his second cup of coffee, this time some muddy deluge from the break room, Sandor began marking up a manuscript when a knock on his office door announced Robert Baratheon and Barristan Selmy, his own bosses. "Clegane!" Robert boomed as Selmy gently pushed the door to. "Robert, Barristan," Sandor replied, rising and walking around the desk to shake their hands. "I didn't know you were dropping by." Silently he wondered if it was some memo that his little assistant had forgotten to mention to him. He'd have to grill her about it later.

"Neither did we," Robert answered, seating himself while Barristan remained standing. "Clegane, we have a rather…delicate situation." Sandor crossed his arms, waiting. It must be important if they were interrupting him in the middle of the day. "What is it?"

"Do you remember when we agreed that you wouldn't go to the Frankfurt book fair, because you weren't allowed out of the country while your visa application was being processed?" Sandor nodded, he remembered it very clearly. "Yes, I do." "And yet you went anyways," Robert continued. "We were going to lose Darrison to Vikings, so I did what I thought was necessary," Sandor answered, wondering where this was going. It wasn't such a big deal. They had ended up getting the contract, so why was Robert bringing this up now?

"Well, it seems the American government does not care for book publishing companies," Robert muttered, picking up some papers. "Your visa application has been denied," Barristan added, slowly and calmly. "And you are being deported." Sandor wondered if perhaps this some stupid, childish joke, but he knew that wasn't possible. Robert might do something like that, but Barristan would never waste time on such antics. "What?" he asked in a deadly tone. The two men shifted before him.

"Apparently there was also some paperwork you failed to fill out in time," Robert added uneasily. Sandor scoffed. "Look, it's not like I'm an immigrant from someplace like the Ukraine. I'm from Canada! There's gotta be a way around this." "Well, you can apply again, but you'd have to be living out of the country for a year," Barristan explained.

Sandor huffed, glancing out the window. "A year, huh? Well…I can work with that. I can still manage everything through the phone and video conferences." "Unfortunately, you cannot have a job in the U.S. if you are not a citizen," Robert interrupted. "I'm sorry, Clegane."

This was ludicrous. Sandor could feel his temper beginning to reach heights he hadn't felt in a long time. "Robert, you know no one else can do what I've done for this company." "Meryn Trant will be replacing you as Editor in Chief once you are gone." Well that was unexpected. "What the – Trant? The man I just fired earlier? You've got to be bloody kidding me." "He's still the editor, and since you will be leaving before he does, he will take your position."

"There has to someone you can speak to." But Robert was shaking his head. Sandor wanted to punch a wall, and he was considering turning around to do just that when the office door opened again, and Sansa poked her head in. "Mr. Clegane? I'm sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Flannery is on the phone and he refuses to leave a voicemail or call back, even though I told him you were already previously engaged and…. he insists on speaking to you now."

Sandor didn't hear a word she just said except for "engaged". His narrowed eyes landed on her face, and a light bulb switched on in his brain; all he could think was: Girl, single, American citizen.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. The idea flooded his mind and the wheels in his head churned. Could the answer really be this simple? Could he really go against all of his principles of lying and being deceitful? Could he really do this?

He could.

Sandor let a grin curl around his mouth and he adopted a calmer expression, holding his hand out to Sansa. "Sansa, would you come here, please?" The girl looked completely lost, but she walked in and over to him. He rested his hand on the small of her back, noting the way her eyes widened. They were a rather nice shade of blue. "Sansa…I have to tell them." His assistant blinked up at him, and for the first time he prayed, that she would catch on.

Turning to Robert and Barristan, he cleared his throat. "We didn't want to tell anyone so soon, but…now that this has come up, I have no choice. Sansa and I are…getting married."

Barristan looked properly floored, Robert's mouth dropped open, and he felt Sansa stiffen with surprise. He tightened his grip on her back, hoping she would get the hint. "What?" Robert asked, baffled. "Isn't she your secretary?" "Assistant," Sandor corrected. "Executive assistant…secretary…titles…anyways, it wouldn't be the first time someone fell for their secretary, eh Robert?" The big man blinked, perplexed, but before he could work out that he had just been subtly insulted, Sandor continued, plastering a look of fondness on his face as he lowered his eyes to Sansa. "Yes, Sansa and I are just…two people who weren't meant to fall in love. Must have been all those late nights in this office…the book fairs…and something just happened." "Something," Sansa echoed faintly.

The other men looked at each other. "So, you see, I will not be leaving any time soon," Sandor added before anyone could say anything else. "I will go downtown and get this all sorted out, don't you worry." This was truly an evil, if not genius, plan. It would all be over soon, and then he would get to keep his job, Trant would be booted out the door like he damn well should be, and everything would be back to normal.

Robert cleared his throat. "Oh, I see. Well. Well, well. I suppose congratulations are in order." He and Barristan straightened up, clearly prepared to leave. "This is good news, Clegane, I am glad you are staying with us." They shook hands and smiled at Sansa, who still wore a deer in the headlights expression, and then they were alone.

* * *

Sansa watched, frozen, as Mr. Clegane left her side and walked behind his desk, taking a seat. He reached for the manuscript and picked up a pen, ready to work again. How was he acting like that conversation never occurred?

She continued to stare at him until he looked up and saw her still standing there. "What?" he asked. "I don't understand what's happening," Sansa answered, barely above a whisper. Blood was pounding in her ears. Mr. Clegane studied her for a moment. "Apparently I am being deported," he explained, leaning back in the leather chair. "In order to avoid that, we are going to get married. I will get my citizenship, keep my job, and everything will be normal." Sansa gaped at him. She couldn't believe it! This was too much.

"What about all your principles about lying and so forth?" she pushed further. He tapped his mouth with the pen for a few seconds, thinking. "Well, there's a first time for everything. And I am not going to let anything get in my way." Her heart sunk, but fresh rebellion rose within her. Maybe he had thrown all his morals, how little of there were, out the window, but she, Sansa Stark, had not.

"No…I won't do it," she protested. "It's illegal!" Mr. Clegane raised his eyebrows and fixed her with a very stern expression that made her want to curl up in a corner and weep. "Oh yes, you will," he rasped, his voice low and grating. "Because if you don't, I'll make sure that all your pretty little dreams of touching the lives of millions of people with the written word will be over, and you will never have a shot at becoming an editor." Sansa was trembling with horror at the prospect. She did not want to lose her job, she had worked so hard to get here…but this!

Mr. Clegane watched her carefully, and she felt like cornered prey. "Think of it this way," he offered. "If I leave, Trant will be getting my job, which means that he will give you one of two choices: warm his bed when his wife is out of town and keep your job, or be fired. So even if you don't help me, you're screwed." Sansa felt ill. She reached for one of the chairs and sat down, resting her forehead on her hand. How had this day gone so terribly wrong? "Don't be dramatic," her boss advised, his voice sounding like two rocks scraping together. "We'll go down to the immigration office after work, get everything settled, get married, and after an appropriate amount of time we'll get a divorce, and it will all be over." "You're making it sound so simple," she muttered. "That's because it is," he replied. Obviously the prospect of marrying someone he neither loved or even really knew well did not alarm or bother him. It bothered Sansa though. It bothered her a great deal. She did not want to marry him, even if it was a farce. But she was undeniably trapped.

Upon exiting his office, Sansa noticed several other employees giving her sadistic smirks and winks. Confused, she sat down at her desk and saw a email pop up. It read: "Have fun being Satan's mistress."

Stifling the urge to pick up the computer and throw it, Sansa gathered herself together, walked as stately and primly as she could to the bathroom, and locked herself in a stall, where she proceeded to cry.

A/N: I think Sansa would take something like this a lot harder than a man would (or in the movie, Ryan Reynolds' character), so I hope it was fitting that she is so upset she's moved to tears.

The next chapter will be filled with more of their banter, including the proposal :)


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So, I'm going to kind of gloss over most of the visit to the immigration office, simply because I want the rest of the story to get going. Hope you enjoy!

The rest of the day dragged by slowly. Sansa had no clue how everyone had managed to find out about her fake engagement, but she blamed Robert Baratheon and his booming voice. The man wasn't exactly subtle.

Fellow employees passed by her desk with crude remarks, and she was even cornered in the break-room by some of the women, demanding details while they tapped their manicured nails against their hips impatiently and pouted their lipstick-covered mouths when she gave them an unsatisfactory answer. It hadn't even occurred to Sansa that the other women in the office might be jealous of her situation; were they insane? Maybe they were just desperate. Not that they had any right to complain. As far as Sansa knew, Mr. Clegane had never given any of them time of day, much less shown any interest that could be conveyed as flirting. She snorted. Mr. Clegane, flirting? It was unthinkable. She wondered when he had last been on a date. Sansa couldn't recall him ever mentioning one, but then, he was secretive, closed off individual.

And it wasn't like she cared, anyways.

At five o'clock, she and her boss took a cab to the immigration office downtown. Sansa tried to rehearse her "script" in her head. She wasn't a good liar, especially when she was nervous, and this meeting with the immigration officer had her biting her nails in dread. Mr. Clegane, or Sandor, as she now needed to think of him, seemed relatively calm, albeit irritated, like this was just some mindless errand that was a complete waste of time. For once, Sansa envied his ability to have no conscious.

"You know what to say, right?" he asked suddenly, breaking her out of her miserable thoughts. Sansa squirmed, gripping her hands together in her lap. "Yes. But it might be best if you do most of the talking. This is your idea, after all." Sandor rolled his eyes and went back to texting some client. "I will, but it will be strange if you don't say much. Just relax." It was Sansa's turn to roll her eyes. Relax. Right.

They reached the office and Sansa followed her boss into the building. He was carrying a folder filled with his documentation and handed it to the front desk agent. "Mr. Clegane, right this way." The agent led them to a tiny room that contained a desk and two chairs, and gestured for them to sit. Sansa accepted a seat gratefully. She felt like she was going to throw up. "Mr. Baelish will be with you shortly," the agent said, then left them, shutting the door. The room felt instantly crowded, and Sansa was very aware of Sandor's intimidating form reluctantly taking a seat next to her, his eyes running over the office with boredom. "How can you not be nervous?" Sansa whispered, though no one else could hear them. Or could they? Maybe there was a microphone hidden somewhere in the room, to catch criminals like they were about to be.

Sandor eyed her in annoyance. "Look, it's not my fault there's a loop-hole in the system. I'm merely taking advantage of it. If anything, it's their fault for having such an option. Now, act casual and quit biting your nails." Sansa scowled at him, wishing she could pout like a five year old. He frowned back at her. "Don't look so unhappy, we are supposed to act like we're madly in love." Sansa plastered a fake smile on her face and batted her eyelashes at him. "Well, sweetheart, it's hard to pretend that I'm in love with you when you're BLACKMAILING me." Sandor gave her smirk, baring his teeth slightly. "Don't forget what happens to you if I'm deported, babe."

The door opened suddenly, making Sansa jump, and they both turned to see a short man with graying brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache enter the room. "Good afternoon," he greeted pleasantly, though something about his voice made Sansa uncomfortable. "Mr. Clegane?" They shook hands, then Mr. Baelish turned to her. His grey eyes ran over her in a way that made her skin crawl, but Sansa forced a smile and shook his hand too. The man sat down behind his desk, opening the folder he took from Sandor, and buttoned his coat. "Shall we begin?"

He asked some questions about how they met and fell in love, and Sansa let Sandor talk about that, while she kept a happy smile on her face and even patted his hand when he reached over to take hers. His palm was large and warm and rough, and Sansa was torn between feeling intrigued and wanting to push it away from her in disgust. "Now, is your family aware of this engagement, Miss Stark?" Mr. Baelish inquired. Sansa panicked for a moment. Her family. She hadn't even thought of them! "Oh…well, no, they aren't. Not yet. I was…we were…" "Going to tell them this weekend, at Gammie's birthday party," Sandor interrupted smoothly. Sansa froze, barely managing a nod in agreement. "I see," Baelish answered, glancing between them. "And where is this party?" Sandor hesitated, then turned to Sansa. "Where is it again, babe?" To an outsider, his gravelly voice would sound apologetic for forgetting something so important, but Sansa had worked for him long enough to know it was really dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? It's in Sitka." "Sitka," Sandor repeated. Sansa nodded, then unleashed the next word with a bit of gratification. "Alaska." She felt Sandor tense for a split second, before he relaxed again, as if this wasn't new information to him, yet she felt him grip her hand harder. She only felt a morbid smugness over catching him off-guard.

The feeling had long gone by the time they left the office and the stifling presence of Mr. Baelish, Sansa walking in a daze while irritation rolled off of Sandor in waves. "This is just great," he growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm so dead," Sansa whispered, wondering what she had done to deserve this. Sandor glanced at her, sighed, and loosened his tie. "Ok. Fine. We'll go do this birthday party thing in Alaska, come back, prove to that creeper in there that we know each other, bla bla bla, and…" "I'm sorry," Sansa interrupted, staring at him incredulously. "Were you not in that office?" Sandor arched a brow at her.

"I am facing a fine of $250,000 and five years in prison, Sandor, for helping you. Prison!" Her nerves were fried. "And now, thanks to your genius idea, I have to bring you home to meet my entire family as proof that we are getting married for real." Sandor continued to look unimpressed with her outburst. "We aren't going to get caught," he replied, folding his arms. "People do this all the time. They're just trying to scare you." "Yea? Well, it's working!" Sansa ran a hand through her tousled curls, exhaling. Then she turned to him, straightening her shoulders.

"If I'm going to do this, then I want more in return. Besides keeping my job." Sandor eyed her suspiciously, then shrugged. "What do you want?" Sansa licked her lips, gathering courage. She had never stood up to him like this before, and the opportunity was frightening as well as exhilarating. "I want my manuscript to be published." Sandor nodded. "Done."

"_And_…I want to become Editor. And not in two years. As soon as we get married." Sandor scoffed and shook his head. "No way. That is not happening." Sansa glared at him. "Fine. Then I quit, and you're screwed. Bye bye, Sandor." She started to walk away when his hand reached out and grabbed her elbow. "Okay! You'll be Editor. And your stupid book will get published. You happy now?" Sansa looked up into his frustrated, scarred face, and read the slight desperation in his dark eyes, and she couldn't resist making him suffer a bit more. It was only fitting, since he had elected to ruin her life. "There's one more thing," she answered sweetly. "You have to propose to me." Surprise flashed over his face, settling into a scowl.

"Right now?" "Yes. Right now."

Sandor's mouth twitched angrily, and he sighed. "Sansa, will you marry me?" He couldn't have sounded less enthusiastic if he tried. Sansa shook her head, enjoying the small bit of control she now had in this situation. "No."

Sandor threw up his hands. "What do you mean, "no"?" Sansa folded her hands and smiled. "You have to do it properly, on one knee." He stared at her like she was crazy, but Sansa remained unflinching. With pure detest, he slowly sank to one knee in front of her, on a busy sidewalk in New York City. "Sansa," he spoke through gritted teeth. "Lovely, _sweet_ Sansa, will you marry me?" It was killing him to say this; she could practically taste the fury oozing from him. Sansa tapped one finger against her chin in consideration.

"Okay. See you tomorrow at the airport!" She spun away quickly, leaving him there on one knee while passerby gave them curious glances.

This weekend was going to be hell.

* * *

Sansa sat in the waiting area by the gate, tapping her foot against the ground nervously while she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. She had spent a good portion of the evening talking to her parents, explaining to them that she was now, indeed, coming home for the weekend, and bringing her boyfriend, who also happened to be her boss, whom she had also painted as the image of Satan for the past three years. Her father had remained suspicious and disbelieving, while her mother eventually accepted the excuse that Sansa and Sandor had been dating for the past six months but Sansa had been too afraid to mention the change to her family after she had so thoroughly convinced them that he was like a slave master.

"I promise I'll explain everything more when we arrive," Sansa had said, eager to get off the phone and pack. And think of how they were going to pull this weekend off. She had refrained from telling them that they were engaged, hoping to be able to slip by that little detail. Sansa knew, however, it was more likely that that would be brought to light soon enough. How could she hide a marriage, even a fake one, from her family? They would figure it out eventually.

Sansa had pulled out her leather weekender bag from the closet and meticulously folded and unfolded clothes for the trip. She still had some clothes at home in Sitka, clothes that she had decided she would never wear in the city, that she could resort to should her packed wardrobe fail her. After she was sure everything was ready, she texted Sandor to let him know what time their flight was and what gate it should be. He was going to buy the ticket when he got to the airport, while Sansa chose to buy hers online.

She had tossed and turned all night, dreading the weekend, wishing for it to be over, but morning came and she dragged herself to the airport, and now here she sat, waiting for Sandor to show up. She fiddled with the strap of her bag anxiously. She had spent good chunks of time together with Sandor before, but it was always about business. They never discussed personal things. Unless it was little insignificant facts, like how he hated too much starch on his collars, how he liked his coffee, that he ate his steak rare, etc. They had each been given a packet full of questions from Mr. Baelish, questions that a couple in love and about to be married should know about each other. Sansa had only peeked at them so far, but it was enough to sink her heart. How were they going to memorize all of those in one short weekend?

A group of laughing exchange students passed by her, causing her to look up, and she saw Sandor walking towards her. The sight made Sansa's mouth drop a little.

She had never seen him without a suit or dress clothes. He didn't wear anything fancy, keeping to the simple white shirt and black jacket and pants with dark-colored ties, and it wasn't unusual to see him on a particularly late night peeling off the jacket and rolling up his sleeves, giving a more disheveled appearance. But today, he wore a pair of dark-wash jeans and a grey t-shirt, which hugged his frame and accentuated his muscles. Sansa knew he was built, that was obvious enough from his size. Plus, she had snuck a look at his clothing when she picked up his dry cleaning. But to see him looking like this, casually walking through the airport, carrying a black Nike duffel bag over his shoulder so she could see the muscles in his arm flexing slightly from the angle…it made her swallow hard.

Her boss spotted her and walked over, and she squirmed when she realized that he, too, was studying her appearance. Sansa liked to be comfortable when traveling, so she had chosen her favorite skinny jeans, a striped tee from J-Crew (which she had discovered in a thrift store, thank you very much), and a navy blue cardigan. She hadn't even given her choices a second thought, but now, seeing him scrutinize her, she felt like she should be dressed in a blouse and pencil skirt again.

Sandor paused in front of her. "Hi," she said, feeling foolish. His mouth twitched as he nodded to her, and took a seat, plopping his bag next to him. "Ready to meet everyone?" Sansa asked, wondering why she was even bothering with conversation. Sandor crossed his arms. "I guess. You told them?" "Yes…they…were very surprised, so we can expect a lot of questions." He grunted in response and continued to stare off into the distance. Sansa took a deep breath, remembering what she had rehearsed the night before.

"Sandor…you know, if you want this to work and sound convincing, you're going to have to be…sociable. As in, friendly. As in…not acting like you're about to kill everyone in sight." Her boss's head swiveled to look at her, and she cringed. He seemed to contemplate her words for a moment before shrugging. "I can do that."

Sansa gave a noise of disbelief. "What? You don't think I can do that? That I can be…_friendly_, as you say?" It was her turn to shrug. "I think you can, but it's going to require you to stop snacking on children while they dream." He glowered at her, and she resisted the urge to cringe again. It was her favorite line from a book they had recently edited, and she knew he had picked up on her reference.

"Hmph…well, maybe _friendly_ is pushing it, but I can be civil," he muttered. With a twinge, Sansa briefly wondered if she had hurt his feelings, but brushed it aside. It was his fault she was in this mess, she shouldn't feel any sort of remorse for making sure he knew how much she resented this. "You're the one that needs work," Sandor continued. "I think you barely convinced that Mr. Baelish. If he hadn't been so busy leering at you, I doubt he would've bought the story." Sansa started and looked at him, aghast. "Leering? What?" Sandor chuckled dryly. "You didn't notice? He was practically undressing you with his eyes, the creep." Sansa shuddered slightly. She _had_ noticed, but had tried to forget it. What surprised her was that Sandor had noticed it as well, and he seemed…well, disgusted? Protective? "Why do you care?" she blurted, and instantly regretted the question.

Sandor pulled out his phone. "Don't mistake my comment for fondness," he rasped as he checked his emails. "I was merely pointing out the fellow is a creep. But he's smart. You'll have to do better this weekend with your family." Sansa felt deflated for some reason.

They boarded the plane, and after take-off, Sandor pulled out the packet of questions, "We might as well look at these," he said, waving them at her. Sansa groaned, wishing she could just put her earphones in and sleep, but she knew this needed to be done. "Fine." She took out her own packet so she could follow along. "These are some stupid ass questions. What am I allergic to?" Sandor questioned. "Pine nuts, and the full spectrum of human emotion," Sansa answered dully. Sandor's lips curled back as he grimaced at her.

"Why don't you stop being a bitchy little bird and take this seriously?" he fired back with a threatening growl. Sansa gaped at him, flushing with anger. "_A bitchy little bird_?" He nodded, looking satisfied that he had hit her buttons. "Yes. You're always chirping like a bird, and now you're being bitchy. So you're a bitchy little bird." Sansa clenched her fists as they stared at each other with loathing. Finally she sighed, closing her eyes and counting to ten. "Alright. Fine. That was unnecessary. I apologize." When she looked at him again she managed to see a quick flash of surprise cross his face before he settled back into his usual countenance.

"Hmph…well…" Sandor sighed, picking at the staple that held the papers together. Sansa rolled her eyes. _I guess that's his version of accepting an apology._

A/N: I hope you liked that I made Baelish the immigration officer. I tried to pick a character that annoys me the most lol


End file.
